The Mistletoe Wager

by Christine Merrill

  It had been hard to avoid the truth. She had failed at the one thing she was born to do. She had proved herself to be as useless as her family thought her. Harry must regret marrying her at all.

  And on the day that she had been angry enough to leave she had shouted that she would return to her old love, for he at least was able to give her an honest answer if she asked him a direct question about his feelings on things that truly mattered.

  Harry had blinked at her. There had been no trace of his usual absent smile, but no anger, either. And he had said, ‘As you wish, my dear. If, after all this time, you do not mean to stay, I cannot hold you here against your will.’

  Elise had wanted to argue that of course he could. That a real man would have barred the door and forbidden her from talking nonsense. Or called out Nicholas long ago for his excessively close friendship to another man’s wife. Then he would have thrown her over his shoulder and marched to the bedroom, to show her in no uncertain terms the advantages of remaining just where she was.

  But when one was in a paroxysm of rage it made no sense to pause and give the object of that rage a second chance to answer the question more appropriately. Nor should she have had to explain the correct response he must give to her anger. For if she must tell him how to behave, it hardly mattered that he was willing to act just as she wished.

  So she had stormed out of the house and taken the carriage to London, and had informed a slightly alarmed Nicholas that there was nothing to stand between them and a much closer relationship than they had previously enjoyed.

  And if she had secretly hoped that her husband would be along at any time to bring her back, even if it meant an argument that would raise the roof on their London townhouse? Then it was positive proof of her foolishness.

  Chapter Six

  After a fitful night’s rest, Nick Tremaine sought out his host to say a hasty farewell. He found Anneslea at the bottom of the stairs, staring out of the window at the yard. Nick turned the cheery tone the blighter had used on him at the club back upon him with full force. ‘Harry!’

  ‘Nicholas.’ Harry turned towards him with an even broader smile than usual, and a voice oozing suspicion. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  The bed had been narrow, hard where it needed to be soft, and soft where it ought to be firm. And no amount of wood in the fireplace had been able to take the chill from the room. But he’d be damned before he complained of it. ‘It was nothing less than what I expected when I accepted your kind invitation.’

  Harry’s grin turned malicious. ‘And you brought a surprise with you, I see?’

  Nick responded with a similar smile, hoping that the last-minute addition to the guest list had got well up the nose of his conniving host. ‘Well, you know Elise. There is no denying her when she gets an idea into her head.’

  ‘Yes. I know Elise.’

  Anneslea was still smiling, but his tone indicated that there would be hell to pay if Tremaine knew her too well. Just one more reason to bolt for London and leave the two lovebirds to work out their problems in private.

  He gave Harry a sympathetic pat on the back. ‘And, since you do, you will understand how displeased she shall be with me when she hears that I’ve had to return to London.’

  ‘Return? But, my dear sir, you’ve only just arrived.’ The other man laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I would not think of seeing you depart so soon.’

  Nick tried to shake off his host’s friendly gesture, which had attached to him like a barnacle. When it would not budge, he did his best to ignore it. ‘All the same, I must away. I’ve just had word of an urgent matter that needs my attention. But before I go, I wanted to thank you and wish you a M-’

  Anneslea cut him off in mid-word. ‘Received word from London? I fail to see how. It is too early for the morning post, and, given the condition of the road, I doubt we will see it at all today.’

  Damn the country and its lack of civilisation. ‘Not received word, precisely. Remembered. I have remembered something I must attend to. Immediately. And so I will start for London and leave Elise in your capable hands. And I wish you both a Mer-’

  ‘But surely there is nothing that cannot wait until after the holiday? Even if you left today you would not arrive in London before Christmas Day. Although you might wish to be a miserable old sinner for this season, you should not make your servants work through Boxing Day to get you home.’

  Nick sighed, trying to manage a show of regret. ‘It cannot be helped. I have come to tell you I cannot stay. Pressing business calls me back to London. But although I must toil, there is no reason that you cannot have a Merr-’

  Before he could complete the phrase sliding from his lips, Harry interrupted again. ‘Ridiculous. I will not hear of it. In this weather it is not safe to travel.’

  Damn the man. It was almost as if he did not want to win his bet. Which was obviously a lie, for he had seen the look on Anneslea’s face at the sight of his wife. The man was as miserable without her as she was without him. Nick stared out of the nearest window at the snow lying thick upon the drive. ‘It was safe enough for me to arrive here. And the weather is much improved over yesterday, I am certain. If I depart now I will have no problems. But not before wishing you a M-’

  ‘Not possible.’ Harry gestured at the sky. ‘Look at the clouds, man. Slate-grey. There is more snow on the way, and God knows what else.’ As if on cue a few hesitant flakes began falling, increasing in number as he watched. Anneslea nodded in satisfaction. ‘The roads will be ice or mud all the way to London. Better to remain inside, with a cup of punch and good company.’

  Nick looked at the mad glint in his host’s eye and said, ‘I am willing to take my chances with the weather.’

  There was a polite clearing of the throat behind them as a footman tried to gain the attention of the Earl. ‘My Lord?’ The servant bowed, embarrassed at creating an interruption. ‘There has been another problem. A wagon from the village has got stuck at the bend of the drive.’

  Anneslea smiled at him in triumph. ‘See? It is every bit as bad as I predicted. There is nothing to be done about it until the snow stops.’ He turned back to the footman. ‘Have servants unload the contents of the wagon and carry them to the house. Get the horses into our stable, and give the driver a warm drink.’ He turned back to Nick. ‘There is no chance of departure until we can clear the drive. And that could take days.’

  ‘I could go around.’

  ‘Trees block the way on both sides.’ Harry was making no effort to hide his glee at Nick’s predicament. ‘You must face the fact, Tremaine. You are quite trapped here until such time as the weather lifts. You might as well relax and enjoy the festivities, just as I mean you to do.’

  ‘Is that what you mean for me?’

  ‘Of course, dear man. Why else would I bring you here?’

  The man was all innocence again, damn him, smiling the smile of the concerned host.

  ‘Now, was there anything else you wished to say to me?’

  Just the two words that would free him of any further involvement in the lives of Lord and Lady Anneslea. Nick thought of a week or more, trapped in the same house with Elise, trying to explain that he had thrown over the bet and her chance at divorce because he had her own best interests at heart. ‘Anything to say to you? No. Definitely not.’

  Rosalind stared at the bare pine in the drawing room, wondering just what she was expected to do with it. Harry had requested a tree, and here it was. But he had requested decorations as well, and then walked away as though she should know what he meant by so vague a statement. The servants had brought her a box of small candles and metal holders for the same, sheets of coloured paper, some ribbon, a handful of straw, and a large tray of gingerbread biscuits. When she had asked for further instruction, the footman had shrugged and said that it had always been left to the lady of the house. Then, he had given her the look that she had seen so often on the face of the servants. If she meant to replace their beloved Elise, then
she should know how best to proceed-with no help from them.

  Rosalind picked up a star-shaped biscuit and examined it. It was a bit early for sweets-hardly past breakfast. And they could have at least brought her a cup of tea. She bit off a point and chewed. Not the best gingerbread she had eaten, but certainly not the worst. This tasted strongly of honey.

  She heard a melodious laugh from behind her, and turned to see her brother’s wife standing in the doorway. ‘Have you come to visit me in my misery, Elise?’

  ‘Why would you be miserable, dear one?’ Elise stepped into the room and took the biscuit from her hand. ‘Christmas is no time to look so sad. But it will be considerably less merry for the others if you persist in eating the lebkuchen. They are ornaments for the tree. You may eat them on Twelfth Night, if you wish.’

  Rosalind looked down at the lopsided star. ‘So that is what I am to do with them. Everyone assumes that I must know.’

  ‘Here. Let me show you.’ Elise cut a length of ribbon from the spool in the basket, threaded it through a hole in the top of a heart-shaped biscuit, then tied it to a branch of the tree. She stood back to admire her work, and rearranged the bow in the ribbon until it was as pretty as the ornament. Then she smiled and reached for another biscuit, as though she was the hostess, demonstrating for a guest.

  Rosalind turned upon her, hands on her hips. ‘Elise, you have much to explain.’

  ‘If it is about the logs for the fireplace, or the stuffing for the goose, I am sure that whatever you plan is satisfactory. The house is yours now.’ She glanced around her old home, giving a critical eye to Rosalind’s attempts to recreate the holiday. ‘Not how I would have done things, perhaps. But you have done the best you can with little help from Harry.’

  ‘You know that is not what I mean.’ Rosalind frowned at her. ‘Why are you here?’

  She seemed to avoid the question, taking a sheet of coloured paper and shears. With a few folds and snips, and a final twist, she created a paper flower. ‘The weather has changed and I was not prepared for it. There are some things left in my rooms that I have need of.’

  ‘Then you could have sent for them and saved yourself the bother of a trip. Why are you really here, Elise? For if it was meant as a cruelty to Harry, you have succeeded.’

  Guilt coloured Elise’s face. ‘If I had known there would be so many guests perhaps I would not have come. I thought the invitation was only to Nicholas and a few others. But I arrived to find the house full of people.’ She stared down at the paper in her hands and placed the flower on the tree. ‘The snow is still falling. By the time it stops it will be too late in the day to start for London. We will see tomorrow if there is a way to exit with grace.’ She looked at Rosalind, and her guilty expression reformed into a mask of cold righteousness. ‘And as for Harry feeling my cruelty to him? It must be a miracle of the season. I have lived with the man for years, and I have yet to find a thing I can do that will penetrate his defences.’ The hole in the next gingerbread heart had closed in baking, so she stabbed at the thing with the point of the scissors before reaching for the ribbon again.

  Rosalind struggled to contain her anger. ‘So it is just as I thought. You admit that you are attempting to hurt him, just to see if you can. You have struck him to the core with your frivolous behaviour, Elise. And if you cannot see it then you must not know the man at all.’

  ‘Perhaps I do not.’ Elise lost her composure again, and her voice grew unsteady. ‘It is my greatest fear, you see. After five years I do not understand him any better than the day we met. Do you think that it gives me no pain to say that? But it is-’ she waved her hands, struggling for the words ‘-like being married to a Bluebeard. I feel I do not know the man at all.’

  Rosalind laughed. ‘Harry a Bluebeard? Do you think him guilty of some crime? Do you expect that he has evil designs against you in some way? Because I am sorry to say it, Elise, but that is the maddest idea, amongst all your other madness. My brother is utterly harmless.’

  ‘That is not what I mean at all.’ Elise sighed in apparent frustration at having to make herself understood in a language that was not her own. Then she calmed herself and began again. ‘He means me no harm. But his heart…’ Her face fell. ‘It is shut tight against me. Are all Englishmen like this? Open to others, but reserved and distant with their wives? If I wished to know what is in his pocket or on his calendar he would show me these things freely. But I cannot tell what is on his mind. I do not know when he is sad or angry.’

  Rosalind frowned in puzzlement. ‘You cannot tell if your husband is angry?’

  ‘He has not said a cross word to me-that I can remember. Not in the whole time we have been married. But no man can last for years with such an even temper. He must be hiding something. And if I cannot tell when he is angry, then how am I supposed to know that he is really happy? He is always smiling, Rosalind.’ And now she sounded truly mad as she whispered, ‘It is not natural.’

  It was all becoming more confusing, not less. ‘So you abandoned your husband because he was not angry with you?’

  Elise picked up some bits of straw and began to work them together into a flat braid. ‘You would think, would you not, that when a woman says to the man she has sworn herself to, that she would rather be with another, there would be a response?’ She looked down at the thing in her hands, gave a quick twist to turn it into a heart, and placed it on the tree.

  Rosalind winced. ‘Oh, Elise, you did not. Say you did not tell him so.’

  Elise blinked up at her in confusion. ‘You did not think that I left him without warning?’

  ‘I assumed,’ said Rosalind through clenched teeth, ‘that you left him in the heat of argument. And that by now you would have come to your senses and returned home.’

  ‘That is the problem. The problem exactly.’ Elise seemed to be searching for words again, and then she said, ‘After all this time there is no heat.’

  ‘No heat?’ Rosalind knew very little about what went on between man and wife when they were alone, and had to admit some curiosity on the subject. But she certainly hoped she was not about to hear the intimate details of her brother’s marriage, for she was quite sure she did not want to think of him in that way.

  ‘Not in all ways, of course.’ Elise blushed, and her hands busied themselves with another bunch of straws, working them into a star. ‘There are some ways in which we are still very well suited. Physically, for example.’ She sighed, and gave a small smile. ‘He is magnificent. He is everything I could wish for in a man.’

  ‘Magnificent?’ Rosalind echoed. Love must truly be blind. For although he was a most generous and amiable man, she would have thought ‘ordinary’ to be a better description of her brother.

  When Elise saw her blank expression, she tried again. ‘His charms might not be immediately obvious, but he is truly impressive. Unfortunately he is devoid of emotion. There can be no heat of any other kind if a person refuses to be angry. There is no real passion when one works so hard to avoid feeling.’

  Rosalind shook her head. ‘Harry is not without feelings, Elise. He is the most easily contented, happy individual I have had the pleasure to meet.’

  Elise made a sound that was something between a growl and a moan. ‘You have no idea, until you have tried it, how maddening it is to live with the most agreeable man in England. I tried, Rosalind, honestly I did. For years I resisted the temptation to goad him to anger, but I find I am no longer able to fight the urge. I want him to rail at me. To shout. To forbid me my wilfulness and demand his rights as my husband. I want to know when he is displeased with me. I would be only too happy for the chance to correct my behaviour to suit his needs.’

  ‘You wish to be married to a tyrant?’

  ‘Not a tyrant. Simply an honest man.’ Elise stared at the straw in her hand. ‘I know that I do not make him happy. I only wish him to admit it. If I can, I will improve my character to suit his wishes. And if I cannot?’ Elise gave a deep sigh. ‘Then at leas
t I will have the truth. But if he will not tell me his true feelings it is impossible. If I ask him he will say that I am talking nonsense, and that there is nothing wrong. But it cannot be. No one is as agreeable as all that. So without even thinking, I took to doing things that I suspected would annoy him.’ She looked at Rosalind and shrugged. ‘He adjusted to each change in my behaviour without question. If I am cross with him? He buys me a gift.’

  ‘He is most generous,’ Rosalind agreed.

  ‘But after years of receiving them I do not want any more presents. Since the day we married, whenever I have had a problem, he has smiled, agreed with me, and bought me a piece of jewellery to prevent an argument. When we were first married, and I missed London, it was emerald earbobs. When he would not go to visit my parents for our anniversary, there were matched pearls. I once scolded him for looking a moment too long at an opera dancer in Vauxhall. I got a complete set of sapphires, including clips for my shoes.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘You can tell just by looking into my jewel box how angry I have been with him. It is full to overflowing.’

  ‘Then tell him you do not wish more presents,’ Rosalind suggested.

  ‘I have tried, and he ignores me. Any attempt to express displeasure results in more jewellery, and I am sick to death of it.’ She began to crush the ornament she had made, then thought better of it, placing it on the tree and starting another. ‘Do you wish to know of the final argument that made our marriage unbearable?’

  ‘Very much so. For I am still not sure that I understand what bothers you.’ Rosalind glanced at the tree. Without thinking, Elise had decorated a good portion of the front, and was moving around to the back. Since the Christmas tree situation was well in hand, Rosalind sat down on the couch and took another bite from of the biscuit in her hand.

  ‘Harry had been in London for several days on business, and I was reading the morning papers. And there, plain as day on the front page, was the news that the investments he had gone to look after were in a bad way. He stood to lose a large sum of money. Apparently the situation had been brewing for some time. But he had told me nothing of the problems, which were quite severe.’